


Every Dog Has Its Day

by prettysailorsoldier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autumn, Dogs, First Meetings, M/M, Puppies, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 07:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12163956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: Sherlock goes to the park to study and leaves with a dog and a boyfriend.Just some self-indulgent unilock fluff in honor of the first day of fall!





	Every Dog Has Its Day

**Author's Note:**

> Sat down at 4pm today and decided I was gonna write a fic for the first day of fall. Herewith the result. Now I'm gonna go drink.

The bark was cool and rough through his jumper, a crisp whisper of wind tugging red leaves down in a shower of sparks, and Sherlock shivered, plucking one off the page of his textbook and wishing he’d thought to layer.

Autumn had snuck up on London, subtly toasting the edges of leaves and frosting the morning grass until the city woke one day in the thick of it, a damp chill rattling window panes and whipping scarfs in warning of winter’s impending grip. Campus had seemed to empty overnight, in spite of there being no holidays until the end of term, students preferring the company of radiators and plush armchairs, but it wasn’t so cold yet to drive everyone inside, Sherlock adjusting one of his headphones to drown out a nearby group of men playing frisbee.

The crest of a violin concerto filled his ears, rising and falling in time with the breath of the season swirling around him, and he returned to his reading, only noticing in the gap between songs that it had grown quiet.

Lifting his chin, he looked around, finding himself abandoned by the company he hadn’t wanted, and frowned, pulling out an earbud in some paranoid notion of missing an early warning siren.

“Apple cider! Get your free apple cider here!”

The shout was distant, and behind him, Sherlock planting a palm in the grass and craning around the tree to squint for the source.

It didn’t take long to find, a large crowd gathered around a tent set up across the path, a bright green and gold banner with balloon bookends proclaiming it ‘Adoption Day’. Beneath it, a number of dogs wearing similar colored bandanas were milling about, some in cages, some free-roaming, but all surrounded by people, tails wagging and tongues lolling as they soaked up affection in the fickle afternoon sun.

“Hot apple cider! I know those fingerless gloves aren’t cuttin’ it!”

Sherlock’s gaze raked the crowd, finding the glinting silver dispenser first, and then the back of the man hawking it, blond hair rippling in the wind over a black jacket.

A couple approached him, breaking their clasped hands apart as he filled and passed a cup to each of them, their mouths moving with what Sherlock assumed was tedious smalltalk before they ambled toward the dogs, clutching their cider in their hands like street urchins in a Dickens novel.

Sherlock followed their progress, watching as they bent to scratch a small terrier behind the ears, and then glanced back at the man, embarrassed to find him already looking. Before he could play it off as a fluke of his roaming gaze, the blond smiled, lifting a brow and waving a hand at the metal container in question, and Sherlock sighed, trapped in the polite obligation that always followed making eye contact with anyone selling something or holding a clipboard.

But he was cold, and there were dogs, and it was free, so he tossed his book into his bag and slung the strap over his shoulder, standing up on stiff legs and brushing grass from the back of his jeans as he wobbled his way across the lawn.

A young woman approached the man in the interim, making Sherlock’s journey slightly less awkward, but he turned back before he drew level, Sherlock’s feet stuttering on a step as a brilliant grin unfurled between wind-flushed cheeks, bright blue eyes crinkling up at him.

He swallowed.

“Heya!” the man greeted with disarming familiarity. “I was wondering when we’d lure you over. Thought you might have frozen to that tree.” He chuckled, wriggling a cup from the top of the stack and flicking on the tap.

“I-I was listening to music,” Sherlock muttered, watching the steam rise from the flowing liquid.

The man glanced up through his lashes, scanning him. “Heavy metal?” he teased, and Sherlock smiled, drawing a subtle breath through his nose to steady himself.

“Not today,” he replied, and the blond laughed, snapping shut the valve and handing up a surprisingly full cup for something being given away. Sherlock cradled it in his hands, breathing in the spiced warmth, eyelashes fluttering against the rising spirals of apple and cloves.

“Everyone always does that,” the man said, nodding at Sherlock’s grip. “Something about cider just requires two hands, I think.”

Sherlock looked down, suddenly aware of it, his fingers twitching against the styrofoam.

The man puffed a laugh. “I’m John.” He stretched out a hand, ironically wrapped in a striped fingerless glove. “John Watson. I volunteer at the shelter.”

Sherlock glanced down, noting a green and gold logo framed by the folds of his jacket. “Sherlock Holmes,” he replied, having no title to follow it, bobbing John’s hand once in the air before returning to the double grip on his cup.

Why _did_ people do that?

“So,” John said, clapping his hands together, “what brings you to the park this _blustery_ day? Study break?” He nodded at the bag dangling by his thigh.

Sherlock shrugged. “Sort of. The library was too crowded.”

“So you thought you’d take your chances with pneumonia?”

He smiled, shaking his head down at his cider. “It’s not _that_ cold,” he contested, but a sudden breeze gave him away, shoulders trembling before he could suppress it.

John had the good grace not to laugh. “Come on,” he beckoned, stepping past him, “let’s keep ya moving.”

Sherlock stayed put, blinking between him and the metal container. “Don’t you have to-”

John shook his head. “There’s a sign”—he pointed to a sheet of paper taped to the folding table—“and people can serve themselves. I’m only there to be charismatic.” He winked, and Sherlock closer to giggled than chuckled, cheeks flushing as he cleared his throat.

“You know, I-I should probably say-”

“You’re not all that interested in adopting?” John supposed, smiling back over his shoulder. “Most people aren’t. Not at first anyway. Thus the siren song of free cider.”

Sherlock’s lips curled around the mouth of his cup, the next sip somewhat guilty.

“But I think I’ve got one that’ll tug on your heartstrings. Not to brag”—he turned, walking backward a few steps as he touched his fingertips to his sternum—“but I’m something of a canine matchmaker.”

Sherlock lifted a brow. “Are you?” he deadpanned, John dipping a very serious nod before facing forward once more.

“It’s my nickname at the shelter. That I gave to myself, but still.” He shrugged, Sherlock laughing as they rounded a row of cages near the back of the group, fewer people wading that far through the canine parade.

“Even so,” he started, shaking his head, “I’m really not-”

John stopped at the end of the row, Sherlock nearly running into the back of him, wobbling back a step as he turned. “Sherlock Holmes,” he pronounced, rolling his hands in a grand, sweeping gesture down at the front of the closest cage, “allow me to introduce-”

“Redbeard,” Sherlock breathed, mouth falling open as he gaped through the bars.

John shuffled a step closer. “Well, right now her name’s Cinnamon, but that _is_ terrible, so-”

“No, I- Redbeard was my dog growing up,” he explained, unable to remember the last time he’d uttered the name, let alone to a stranger. He dropped down in a crouch, lowering the cup to the ground and steadying himself against the bars with his fingertips. “She looks just like him.”

The dog looked barely old enough to merit the mature distinction, curled in a tight circle against the back of the cage, wrapped in the shadow of a blanket draped across to shield her against the worst of the wind. Her head was lifted, watery brown eyes blinking up at him as her nose twitched, neck stretching toward the wafting steam of the cider, and then her tongue peeked out, flicking against her lips with that signature smacking sound.

Sherlock instinctively reached for his pocket, an old habit even more than a decade couldn’t drive out, but John tapped him on the shoulder, holding out a small square treat.

“She likes the cheese ones best,” he said, dropping the biscuit into the palm of his hand, and Sherlock transferred it to his fingertips, stretching it through the cold metal bars.

“It’s okay,” he assured, voice pitching higher as he waggled the snack, the dog eyeing him with wavering uncertainty. “It’s just a treat. I’m not luring you out or anything.” He didn’t know why it felt important to tell her that, but it seemed to work, Cinnamon—god that _was_ awful—scuttling to her feet and warily approaching, wide eyes flicking between the treat and his face.

She stalled an inch from his hand, licking her lips, and Sherlock held his breath, not wanting so much as a twitch of muscle to spook her back into hiding. Her nose thumped as she sniffed toward his hand, as if trying to smell his intentions, and then, slowly, twitched her mouth forward, taking the treat between her front teeth and hurrying back to her sanctuary of shadows to eat it.

Sherlock’s heart punched clear through his spine.

“We reckon she was abused,” John said softly, kneeling down at his shoulder, Sherlock’s fingers curling back around the bars for balance as he turned. “She’s the sweetest thing,” he continued, blue eyes clouding with the sorrow of compassion as he looked into the cage, “but so nervous with people. Fine with other dogs,” he said, eyes moving back to Sherlock’s with a shrug, “but, as soon as anyone enters the room, she finds a corner.”

Sherlock swallowed around the lump in his throat, watching Cinnamon lick the bottom of her crate for crumbs. “Where did you find her?” he asked, and John shook his head.

“We didn’t.” Anger twitched at his jaw. “She was dropped off. Guy said he’d found her wandering the neighborhood, but it was pretty obvious she was his. We see it a lot,” he added at Sherlock’s horrorstruck expression. “Especially ‘round spring. Takes people that long to realize their Christmas puppy is gonna grow up.”

Sherlock bowed his head to the ground, stomach swirling. “I can’t imagine doing something like that,” he whispered, remembering Redbeard rounding the corner, scratching at his bright red bow and capturing Sherlock’s heart. “How do you handle it?” He looked up, searching between John’s questioning eyes. “Volunteering there. I think I’d want to kill half the people who walked through the door.”

“I do,” John chuckled, “but”—he smiled into the cage—“it has its moments.”

Sherlock frowned, and then snapped his head with a start, something cold and damp dragging across his knuckles.

Cinnamon—that really had to go—had moved up to the front of the cage, her eyes scant inches from his own. Her nose bumped against his hand again, and he slowly uncurled an index finger, allowing her a thorough sniff. She leaned back, regarding him a moment. And then licked his hand.

Bonny. Her name was Bonny.

“I-I don’t-” He shook his head, looking desperately to John, and then back at Bonny—Cinnamon, _dammit_ !—who had tilted her head at the sound of his voice, ears perking as her tail gave a single _thud_.

Well, he _had_ just moved into a larger flat. And there _was_ a park a couple blocks away. And Mycroft was _always_ sneaking money into his account. And Mrs. Hudson _loved_ animals.

“You shouldn’t feel pressured,” John said, voice watery as Sherlock pulled himself out of his trance. “We’re a no-kill shelter. And it wouldn’t be any good for either of you to get in over your head.”

“No, I- I just-” But he had nothing to follow it, something in him decided from the moment those doleful eyes met his. He sighed, John already smiling when he looked up. “Matchmaker, eh?” he muttered, and John laughed, rising to standing.

“So I tell me! You want me to bring the paperwork over here?”

Sherlock glanced back at Bonny.

Her tail thumped twice.

“Alright,” Sherlock mumbled, embarrassed, but John had offered, his brilliant grin not seeming at all troubled by Sherlock’s instant attachment.

“Great! I’ll be right back,” he said, walking toward the desk under the tent, Sherlock peering around the side of the crate to watch.

Bonny bumped his hand, drawing his attention back with a very judgmental look.

“What?” he muttered, stroking two fingers down the side of her snout. “I can’t look?”

Her sneeze sounded an awful lot like a scoff.

“Here we go!” John’s trainers appeared on the grass beside him, a clipboard dropping in front of his face, and Sherlock had to pull his hands away to take it, leaning a shoulder against the front of the cage to make up for the absence as he lowered himself to the grass. “There’s the usual stuff—name, address, references, what have you—and then a contract that says you’ll get her spayed when she’s old enough. We guess she’s about 7 months right now, but, since we can’t be sure, I’d suggest waiting about another month to be safe.”

“How do you know people do it?” Sherlock asked, pausing halfway through his address. “Couldn’t they just lie?”

“We call the vet to check in,” he said, Sherlock nodding and returning to his scribbling. “Do you have one? A vet?”

“Probably just use the same one we had before. Dr. Swift?”

John nodded. “Yeah, I know her. Didn’t realize she’d been around that long though.”

“I’ll tell her you said so,” Sherlock teased, stomach fluttering when John kicked him lightly on the knee.

“Think she’d be a good reference?” he asked. “Normally we wait until we’ve called them before signing off, but I’d rather not split you two up if I don’t have to.” He smiled at Bonny, who tipped her head at him, glancing to Sherlock as if asking him to translate.

“Maybe,” he said, nibbling his lip, “but it was some time ago. I was going to put my landlady down.”

“Even better!” John chirped. “Always like to know they’re going to a good home. Why don’t you fill out that section and I’ll make the calls while you finish.”

“You really don’t-”

“Nonsense,” John interjected, lifting his chin imperiously. “It’s my job.”

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head, but obliged, hastily finishing the page and unclipping it to pass up. “Thank you,” he murmured, and John grinned, flashing a wink that flipped Sherlock’s heart.

“Any time,” he said, pulling his mobile from his pocket and wandering away again, Sherlock watching his back with a perplexed frown.

_Any time?_

He looked to Bonny, leaning in close to the cage. “You don’t think he meant- No,” he decided, shaking his head. “No, of course not. That’s ridiculous.” He bowed his head to the clipboard, pen poised, teeth pinching his lip. “Right?” he asked, lifting his face again.

Bonny only yawned.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbled, “am I keeping you awake?”

She lied down, curling against the front of the cage to push at his side.

He huffed.

She sighed.

“You’re a big help,” he muttered, and then returned to his paperwork, swirling the last curl of his signature on the final page as John reappeared.

“All set!” he sang, lowering a large tote bag to the ground beside him, the shelter logo printed on the black sides. “This is just a few essentials we like to send everyone home with—dish, toy, bag of treats. There’s also a few pamphlets and business cards for local trainers, boarders, etc. I wrote my number on the back of ours,” he said, casually enough, but every hair on Sherlock’s body stood on end, even Bonny lifting her head. “Just in case.” He smiled down at him, wiping Sherlock’s brain function for a moment.

“But I- I haven’t paid,” he muttered, flipping through the clipboard for what he was sure had been a dollar amount, but John shook his head, waving a hand.

“No need. Mrs. Hudson took care of it over the phone.”

Sherlock blinked. “She...what?”

“Paid for it,” John said as if this shouldn’t be shocking, stretching out a hand for the clipboard Sherlock dazedly passed up. “She’s very excited. Says she’ll pick you up if you don’t wanna walk back. But you don’t live very far away, do you?” he added, tapping the clipboard when Sherlock frowned. “Don’t worry, I’m not the stalking type. So,” he said, bending down to pull a bright green leash from the top of the bag, “what say we get”—he scanned down the page—“Bonny ready to go. Bonny?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but was still a little slow on the uptake, John humming with understanding before he could explain.

“Anne Bonny.” He chuckled, looking over the top of the clipboard with a fond shake of his head. “Someone’s got a thing for pirates.”

Sherlock smiled. Shrugged.

John laughed, tucking the clipboard under his arm and dangling the leash down. “You wanna do the honors?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded, Bonny standing with him, looking uncertain.

“It’s alright,” he soothed as he unlatched the cage. “We’re gonna go home. Find out what ridiculous thing Mrs. Hudson is out buying for you right now.” He swung the door open, John chuckling behind him. “Come on,” he urged when Bonny hesitated, patting his knees, and she emerged with slow steps, leaning heavily against his legs as he fastened the leash around her collar. “There we go. See, it’s not so bad,” he soothed, scratching up and down her side, and she seemed to take his word for it, moving a short distance away to sniff at a nearby leaf.

“Here.” John was holding the tote out by the handles, half his mouth curled up. “There’s a few bags in there too,” he said as Sherlock took it, draping it atop his backpack strap, and it hit him all of a sudden, mind running through the lengthy list of things he would need.

“What does she eat?” he blurted, flushing as John laughed.

“Food,” he chuckled. “There are a few recommendations in there”—he nodded at the bag—“but I think Mrs. Hudson is already on it.”

“Of course she is,” Sherlock muttered, but it came out fonder than intended, John rocking back on his heels with a smile.

“You know,” he said, licking his lips, Sherlock certain even from their short acquaintance that a nervous John Watson was a sight rarely witnessed, “I do a bit of training. For the shelter.” He waved back at the banner in an unnecessary reminder. “I could...come round. If you like.”

Sherlock blinked, his hearing wobbling a moment as his head spun.

“It’s always better to do it at home,” John continued, somehow under the impression that Sherlock needed to be convinced, “and I think I’ll miss this one a little bit.” His eyes dropped to where Bonny had moved on to a stick, an absentminded smile softening his features, and Sherlock found himself standing in a puddle of his own melted heart.

“Yeah,” Sherlock said, swallowing as his voice cracked, shrugging a shoulder in an attempt to salvage his faux-casual demeanor. “That- That would be...fine.”

John’s mouth twitched. “Fine?” he echoed, eyes sparkling and relentless, Sherlock’s train of thought drowning in the blue of them.

“Er-” Something heavy pressed against the back of his calves, knocking out his knees and toppling him forward, his arms instinctively lunging out to break his fall against the ground, but landed instead on John’s chest, clipboard tumbling to the ground as the man lurched forward to steady him.

“Woah there!” he said, one hand tight on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other soft at his waist, a chuckle freezing in his throat as he looked up, searching between eyes Sherlock was sure were screaming things he’d rather have kept secret for possibly forever.

He planted his feet and retracted his hands, opening his mouth to make his apologies and a very quick exit when something hit his shoe with a wet _thump_ , both their chins dropping to find a large mossy stick forming a bridge between their trainers.

Bonny sat beneath them, expectant gaze shifting from one to the other, a clump of dirt caught on her chin.

They burst into synchronized laughter, John clutching his stomach and staggering a step back while Sherlock bent down to retrieve the stick, Bonny seeming to think better of offering it to him and snatching it back at the last second, trotting a few feet away before laying down to gnaw on the end.

“Yeah,” Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head at her, “she might need a bit of training.”

“Just a little,” John replied with a grin, and a peace settled over Sherlock for the second time that day, a warm heaviness of _knowing_. “I’m free Sunday afternoon,” he offered.

Sherlock smiled. “So am I.”

“Convenient.”

“Quite.”

John chuckled, scooping up the clipboard and waggling it in the air. “I’ll call you,” he said, Sherlock’s mouth opening out of habit, but this was one time he might _not_ prefer to text. “Til Sunday, then.”

“Til Sunday,” Sherlock nodded, and John smiled, twisting on his heels and starting away, Sherlock’s eyes following a few steps before turning to Bonny.

“Alright,” he sighed, moving toward her, “time to-”

“Actually,” John called, turning back to him, “if-if you’re not busy...tomorrow...” He trailed away, cheeks pink and eyes anxious, and Sherlock chuckled, a giddy sort of confidence rising in his chest.

“Same time?” he suggested, waving a hand at their surroundings.

John’s megawatt grin could’ve lit up the city. “Same time,” he agreed, head high as he turned and started for the tent.

Sherlock huffed a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head at the man’s retreating back. A cold wet nose pressed into his palm, Bonny abandoning the stick in favor of attention, and Sherlock chuckled, pinning her head against his thigh as he massaged her ear.

“You did that on purpose,” he muttered, giving her head a closing ruffle, brown eyes tipping up to assure him she’d never do any such thing.

He wasn’t buying it for a second.

“Come on,” he chuckled, wrapping the leash firmly around his hand and starting for the street, “let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Make sure to check out [my tumblr](http://prettysherlocksoldier.tumblr.com/) for updates, excerpts, playlists, and too much information about my personal life!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Every Dog Has Its Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16201505) by [bagofthumbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagofthumbs/pseuds/bagofthumbs)




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